


Holy Palmers

by Fyre



Series: Desire Increase [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: OLHTS made me do it, Sensuality, because little touches can be hot af, erotic hand-holding, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are trying new things.Wherein an angel and a demon hold hands.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Desire Increase [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784770
Comments: 48
Kudos: 334





	Holy Palmers

**Author's Note:**

> Was tiny bit challenged by the gang on OLHTS (who am I kidding? I need no help) to write something erotic without being sexual :D

Quiet nights were always Aziraphale's favourite in the wake of the Apocalypse that wasn't.

Without the hidden burden of their 'work', there was more weight to them. A choice made. Their own little world, where they were and could be, simply existing together.

Sometimes, they talked nonsense for hours over copious amounts of wine.

Sometimes, they ate – though both preferred to do that elsewhere because of the books. One could make such a dreadful mess with a saffron-spill of curry.

And sometimes, just lately, they would sit closer than they had ever sat before, saying little, doing less.

Aziraphale had taken to sitting on the couch on those nights. They had no need for distance anymore, though the elusive bubble that had always tacitly kept them apart still held sway. A hard habit to break, but occasionally, when he felt especially bold, he let his hand drift and their knuckles would brush.

So simple, he thought wonderingly, the skim of skin against skin.

Once, Crowley uncurled his smallest finger, hooking it gently over Aziraphale's, the whisper of contact making his pulse skitter.

Every time, a little more, gently, unfolding like the petals of a flower into bloom.

This time, Aziraphale - aided with a little liquid courage - dropped his arm lightly over Crowley's. It fell artlessly, guilelessly, fingertips a breath across Crowley's palm. One of them made a small sound. Perhaps both.

Like an oyster to sand or a venus flower to food, Crowley's fingers curled, gripping softly, then releasing.

His hands were lovely, Aziraphale though. Warm, slender, calluses here and there, a landscape to map with his fingertips. The lines of heart and mind, if one were to believe it, the plump pads where palm met fingers, and - as he touched - the tremors that rippled through each slim digit.

“That’s new.” Crowley’s voice was little more than a breath.

“It is, rather.” Aziraphale glanced at him, raising his eyebrows, in offer, invitation, request.

Under his hand, Crowley’s fingers spread. Just enough, enough to let Aziraphale’s thread between them, sliding so intimately close that it sent a little thrill through the angel’s body, until they were palm to palm, phalanxes overlapping, fitted together as if they were meant to.

Carefully and so gently, Crowley curled his fingers in, the whisper of his touch on Aziraphale’s knuckles – side-to-side like the serpent he was – making Aziraphale’s entire body shiver.

They had touched before. Of course they had, but that was business: shaking of hands, passing of cups, sharing of bread.

This… this was something else. New and different and thrilling.

They sat just like that, just for a time, then Crowley – never-still always-moving Crowley – began tracing patterns on the base of Aziraphale’s thumb. Sinuous serpent shapes coiled and curled, small at first but venturing boldly onwards, heel and back of hand both and–

“Oh!”

Crowley froze as one struck. “Angel?” His thumb was a warm whisper against the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist, the very tip teasing its way beneath his cuff.

Aziraphale met his eyes, or hoped he was. The glasses always made it difficult to tell. “That’s… rather nice,” he managed.

A small sound hitched in his throat as a very familiar sigil was painted onto his skin by the lightest of touches of Crowley’s thumbnail. “That?” Crowley asked, his voice a breath.

“Yes.” Astonishing how much effort a single word could take.

Crowley lifted his free hand and dragged off his glasses, his unblinking eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face. “Can I–” He trailed off and wordlessly lifted Aziraphale’s hand instead. As he had done before, a thousand times across history. As they both had when it meant far, far less.

He didn’t kiss.

No, no, what he did was both worse and better, dragging the back of Aziraphale’s hand so lightly across his lips, his breath a soft trembling gust on the angel’s already thrumming skin as he breathed him in. Close enough for the graze of forgotten stubble and the catch of dry lips and the drag of Aziraphale’s fingertips – lightly – against his cheek.

Aziraphale’s other hand leapt to his heart, clutching as if it might beat out through his skin.

Crowley made a small almost pained sound, pressing his eyes briefly shut, then opened them again, liquid gold, bright as a sunrise. He fixed Aziraphale with that predator’s stare, watching, waiting, and then – only then – did he press a reverent kiss to the knuckle of Aziraphale’s index finger.

Each knuckle followed with a shivering breath from the demon and sharp, helpless little gasps from the angel. It ought not have been so shattering, but in the quiet of the shop, only the sound of his lips upon Aziraphale’s skin broke the silence. The rasp of his stubble, the soft, dry warmth of his lips and his breath, the shiver of his hands, the liquid lambent heat of his eyes…

And back, back, back he came, knuckle by knuckle, thumb teasing and tracing a path, until Aziraphale’s own fingers dug into his chest, his breathing so rapid and shallow he thought he might collapse. But he didn’t stop, following the invisible marks of the serpent, his marks etched invisibly onto Aziraphale’s skin, a flicker of a forked tongue against the soft V of flesh between finger and thumb, flutters of heat whisper and rippling until the angel had to sink back on the couch.

Golden eyes held him, ensnared enraptured, and Crowley turned his hand, implicit and intent. A kiss feathered against the side of his wrist, echoed by the whispering rasp of his stubble. “Can I–?”

The angel swallowed hard, heart in his throat. “Please.”

The slide of his sleeve downwards left him dizzy with want, but that was nothing – not even close – to the electrifying sensation of scattered, tracking kisses against the criss-cross of veins beneath tissue-thin skin. He whimpered, fingers curling against Crowley’s and felt the smile, felt the merciful rasp of the stubbled chin upwards, until Crowley’s chin rested on their tangled hands.

“Enough?” Crowley murmured, cheek sliding back and forth against his quivering fingertips.

“For today,” Aziraphale breathed. “Yes.” He smiled – for how could he do anything but? – and curled a finger. “Thank you, darling.”

And to his pleasure, Crowley blushed.


End file.
